


How Much Longer

by DomLerrys



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Implied Altaïr/Maria, Light Angst, M/M, not the oldest fart but still pretty old, old fart Altaïr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 22:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16375889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DomLerrys/pseuds/DomLerrys
Summary: Altaïr ran his fingers against the white embroidery. He slowly thumbed a loose thread.The dark djellaba was warm and coarse under his hands. It was sturdy and meant to last.





	How Much Longer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [areon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/areon/gifts).



“He wants us to call him Malik.”

The dark djellaba was warm and coarse under his hands. It was sturdy and meant to last.

“Darim dotes on him. He says he is going to be an excellent swordsman.”

Altaïr ran his fingers against the white embroidery. He slowly thumbed a loose thread.

“When he fails to perform a new technique, he cannot sit still until he has mastered it. He is as stubborn as an ass. His mouth twists just so, like yours, and he is at it again.”

Altaïr rose from his bent position, still holding the heavy fabric in his old hands. In the silence of the Library, his laboured breath echoed like thunder, but his steps were those of a ghost. Altaïr walked in big circles, moving along the shelves brimming with books.

“Walk with me.”

The inner gardens were in full bloom. That year the spring had been kind, and the summer would be generous. Masyaf had been blessed with a new foal the night before. Khaled’s daughter and her husband would soon have a baby of their own to raise. Khaled had been barely able to conceal his joy as he trained a promising new crop of novices. The occasional big smile that would inadvertently bubble up on his lips made him look even younger than his students.

Altaïr grinned at the thought as he ducked his head to sit in the shade of a large tree. Across the small garden, he could see two boys full of dreams that were discussing in hushed tones. They were clothed in novice grey. The shorter one was sitting idly against the cool stone of the wall, mirroring Altaïr’s own position, while the other gestured heatedly as he paced in front of his companion. The lounging one was feigning disinterest, but a careful observer would notice that he was not missing a single word. His head was covered by the cowl of his robes (his head would always be covered) and his posture was studiously relaxed, as if he had never experienced such a thing and he had only been told what it was supposed to look like. A warrior through and through. Altaïr could see what Al-Mualim saw in that oddly graceful duckling that had yet to hit his growth spurt. Even at that tender age, his whole presence screamed ‘lethal’.

Oblivious to the danger, the other boy kept rambling animatedly. His stance was stiff (his stance would always be stiff), but his hands were agile and swift. He was built like a brick wall, with shoulders that would soon fill his uniform nicely and would command respect. The other boy sneered at him for something he had said, and the pacing one stood imposingly facing the other, frustration etched in every muscle of his back.

“That is not how it works, Altaïr, and you know that,” he boomed with the ridiculous croak of puberty. There was little, in that sound, of the melodious tones the boy’s voice would grow up to have. He could have been a singer, in another life.

The smaller boy merely shrugged and tilted his head up toward the sky, effectively dismissing the other, who bristled one last time before turning on his heels and stomping out of the garden. The self-satisfied smirk that stretched the boy’s face made his features ugly.

Altaïr grimaced at the sight, stood up, and left.

 

–

 

The two young boys were not boys anymore. They stood like two pillars on the two sides of the wooden counter. Gone was the loose-limbedness of the past, gone was the mirth in their eyes.

“Malik, you were as frightening as a lion and twice as beautiful. The only reason I never cowered before you was some kind of fake courage provided by my mindless arrogance. I would bow with my forehead to the ground in the presence of such strength, today.”

Malik’s eyes were of steel as he talked to Altaïr’s younger self, the youthful heat of that discussion in the gardens of Masyaf Castle all but lost to the coldness of his glare. This Malik was the broken shell of a broken man. How could have Altaïr stood before him so triumphant in his own utter defeat? Had he not an ounce of shame? How could he not even understand the scope of his own failure? No, this Altaïr was the twisted result of lessons wilfully ignored, an _enfant prodige_ grown up to be an adult who had lost his way. This Altaïr was _so_ wrong that he could not even see how wrong he was.

Altaïr covered his eyes with a wrinkled hand. Have patience, old man, he will learn. Malik will cradle his misguided intentions close to his chest and he will beat them up until that stupid _novice_ will see reason. Look, his resolve is already crumbling around the edges.

Go kill Majd Addin, Altaïr.

After the Altaïr of his memories left the bureau, Malik let himself slump on the border of the gurgling fountain, his ink-stained hand on his eyes and a fat sigh on his lips, painting a figure much older than his twenty-six years of age. Unbeknownst to the Dai, the young Altaïr was observing him from beyond the latticed ceiling.

Altaïr looked at the two men of fifty-odd years before, murmured his approval, and left.

 

–

 

At last, the walls of Masyaf welcomed them back like the home they once had been. Altaïr remembers he had been ready to beg Malik to stay there with him, to help him run an Order in shambles. There had been so much to build anew from the ground up, buildings and people alike.

He had not realised he was about to ask him to stay until he had been standing right before him. Malik had been a sight to behold, up there on the rocks above, tall and proud and bloodied and perfect against the setting sun. He had looked down at Altaïr with a mad grin stretched on his handsome features and his powerful chest still heaving after the battle. Altaïr had been barely able to breathe himself as he had drunk in that wondrous vision.

“We did it,” Malik panted, as Altaïr reached him. His hair was sticking to his forehead, and streaks of sweat lined his temples. Altaïr caught Malik’s wet nape and pulled him in until their foreheads touched. He let his eyes slip closed as he felt Malik’s soft exhale against his own cheek.

“Yes, my friend. We did it.”

It turned out Altaïr did not have to beg, or even ask. Malik stayed one day, two days, a week, a month, and then he just stayed. Altaïr, even all those years later, still thought he could have done very little without his most trusted friend at his side.

 

–

 

Altaïr reached his chambers. His bones played a cacophony of cracks as he sat slowly on the softest pillow he had. He rested his hand on the folded djellaba in his lap.

He was such a fool. They both were. Always had been.

Malik was sitting on that very same pillow, his head against the stone warmed by the orange sun.

“We leave in four days,” Altaïr blurted, breaking the silence. Malik opened his eyes slowly, keeping them firmly trained on the window. Altaïr felt Malik’s non-gaze sit on his stomach like a boulder.

“This man they call Jinkīz Khān, I…” Altaïr said, searching Malik’s eyes, “I have to go, Malik, don’t... don’t be like that.” When had this man managed to make a rambling mess out of him? Even at his mature age, whenever he was in Malik’s presence, he felt more like a grey-clad boy then he had ever felt when he had yet to don the white robes, so many years before.

In the uneasy silence that followed, Malik shifted his dark eyes on him, still every ounce the formidable beast he had always been. Altaïr hoped he would not object again to the course of action they had decided on, as he knew there was nothing that could be done about it, and it broke his heart to rehash that argument. If Jinkīz Khān really was in possession of a Piece of Eden…

The older Altaïr watched Malik gaze into the depths of his younger self’s eyes, looking for something Altaïr could not tell. Malik’s glare darkened.

“I know it is necessary,” Malik said, “but that does not mean I like it.”

Malik kept looking right into Altaïr’s eyes, and all the words unsaid sounded almost clear in the twilight air. Malik frowned with a sigh and made to leave the room. Altaïr rushed to him.

“Don’t! Don’t. Don’t go.”

The older Altaïr retracted the hand he had involuntarily moved to reach his memory of Malik. He watched as his younger self barely loosened the grip he had on the other man’s wrist.

“Don’t go. Stay with me.”

Malik’s eyes were oh so sad in the dim light. The Altaïr of his memories was still as a statue. The old man grasped the pillow he was sitting on so hard that his hand trembled with the strain. Such fools.

Malik’s straight shoulders slumped in defeat, and he turned toward Altaïr. He cautiously took Altaïr’s face in his hand, stepping in the other man’s personal space to press his chest against the other man’s like he was trying to mould them together. Altaïr leaned into the touch with his whole body.

“I don’t want you to go,” Malik murmured so low that if the older Altaïr had not known the words, he would have missed them. “I know you have to, but I hate it.”

Altaïr did not reply with words, only releasing the other man’s wrist to wrap his arms tightly around Malik.

“Lead the Order in my stead, my friend. Guide them. I shall be back as soon as I can.”

Ten years. It had been ten years. Ten years of longing for those walls and those eyes. And after ten years of pain, more pain. Abbas, and Sef, and his beloved Maria, and Malik, too. Oh, Malik.

Malik was sobbing silently into the crook of Altaïr’s neck. The older man stood up as fast as he could and all but escaped the room.

 

–

 

The corridor leading to the Library was lit by torches that were always kept burning. Altaïr’s step was not as quick as it used to be, but he would not have hurried his pace anyway. As he reached the furthest wall from the entrance of the circular chamber, he opened the hidden safe and placed the cloth he was still grasping next to the Apple. The yellow glow cast an eerie light on the folds of fabric.

It was dark, and precious, and sturdy; meant to last. Altaïr smoothed out the wrinkles before touching his cheeks, and then his lips with wet fingertips. He tasted salt.

“Ya habibi,” he whispered, pressing his hands once more on the djellaba, “listen to my prayer. Kiss Maria’s eyes like they were your own wife’s, the right first and then the left. Watch over my beloved son as you did in life, as if he were your own. I shall watch over yours as if he were mine.”

Altaïr’s voice cracked. A lone sob echoed in the Library.

“I don’t know how many years I have left to wander these lands; the Apple has not finished with me yet. But I won’t be long. No matter how many seasons divide us, I soon shall be with you again, and we shall sit under the trees in the garden once more, and we shall dine, and we shall laugh, and you shall call me names. No matter how many breaths until my last, I am coming home.”

He closed the safe with a tired sigh, turned, and left. The door boomed shut behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Laura for their patience and support and to my sister Sara for being a great beta.


End file.
